What Comes From Being Loved
by darthsydious
Summary: Sherlock realizes something rather profound about his Pathologist.


_Song-fic based on "I Wish I Could Forget You" from Stephen Sondheim's Passion. Music and Lyrics by the incomparable Stephen Sondheim. Lyrics are in italic to make it easier. _

* * *

Pale face, weary eyes that seemed sad sometimes, but could shine and light up a room when she smiled. Gentle and kind, but fiercely loyal to her friends. Brave when she needed to be and seductive in her own right (usually without meaning). That was how Sherlock thought of Molly.

_I wish I could forget you.__  
__Erase you from my mind._

He rolled over onto his side, frustrated. He was not supposed to be thinking of Molly Hooper. He was supposed to be working on effects maggots had on a decomposing hand versus arsenic acid. How could he even begin his experiments while waiting for another case if Molly Hooper kept invading the inner sanctum of his Mind Palace?! Of course, he'd been the one to put her there, he _had_ to. She was his pathologist and he needed information on her to use to his advantage. That's what he kept telling himself at any rate.

_But ever since I met you,__  
__I find, I cannot leave the thought of you behind._

Sherlock thought often of Molly Hooper these days. He _studied_ her. He organized her room in his Mind Palace and found it crowded, so he expanded it. He disliked that. Why should Molly Hooper take up so much room? She didn't stand out, not to most people. She wasn't like The Woman, dominating a room as if it were her stage; you couldn't help but notice her. Molly Hooper stood in a room the way wallpaper does. It's there, you notice it, and in fact it's always there, in the corner of your eye. She'd always been like that, matter of fact. Just…there. Every time he approached that door in his Mind Palace, he thought of deleting it. How simple it would be. Get rid of all this information regarding Molly Hooper. He didn't need to know her cat's name (Toby) or what breed he was (Maine Coone mix). He didn't need to know what shampoo she used (alternated between John Frieda Luxurious Volume and Damage Control by Ojon) or that she took three lumps in her coffee.

_That doesn't mean I love you...__  
__I wish that I could love you_

He wondered if she'd been in his thoughts because of this Tom Meat-Dagger, aka the ex-fiancé. Or perhaps because of that whole business with Magnussen's PA (who really meant nothing to Sherlock, she was so typically 'girlfriend' it made him sick. Flirty, giggly, playing with her hair and his, hanging on him around the house, always wanting to fill him in on every minute detail of her day, and she was a lap-sitter. Cripes. Were women dogs or humans? Always sitting on someone's lap). Molly was nothing like Janine. She was nothing like The Woman either. She was a little like Mary; less bold, less glamorous in the sense that Mary always put her face on when she went out. Molly worked with dead people and didn't often see the point of putting on make-up (just mascara and face powder, blush made infrequent appearances, eye-shadow extremely rare).

_I know that I've upset you,__  
__I know I've been unkind_

He looked back on his past behavior towards Molly and felt shame and regret. But how else was he supposed to treat her? He treated everyone that way. He never felt sorry if he said what was on his mind to Lestrade, or John (mostly) or Mycroft. Why was Molly different? Deep down, he supposed because he knew she loved him. He had assumed for quite some time it was the school-girl crush. He'd seen that all before in Uni, and used her feelings to his advantage. With just a look he had her signing off body parts and organs, with a smile and a wink, he could have her loaning him lab equipment. She probably would have loaned him the equipment anyway, but at least this way everyone was happy. Or at least he assumed so. Isn't that what girls with crushes wanted? Some attention, a wink and a smile, acknowledgement and then he could dally off on his merry way.

"It's cruel," John reprimanded him. "To pretend you have feelings for someone when you have no intention of following through-"

"Bit not good?" Sherlock asked.

"A whole lot of not good," John replied. So Sherlock, not wanting to lose his best way into St. Barts, tried to be more sincere. He tried to mean his compliments, for some reason, Molly didn't appreciate them. And then came the day when she stopped letting him. She made conditions; she made him say 'please' and 'thank you' and actually mean it. She made him sign forms and to stop calling her after midnight for favors. He was naturally upset. It was a comfortable habit and terribly convenient, using Molly's pull in St. Barts. But a small part of him was proud of her, delighted that she had straightened her spine (even if it was towards him). However, it made his cut-and-dry relationship with her much more complicated. The school-girl crush was something he could handle, use to his advantage, and when convenient, ignore. Love was different. Love was something Sherlock had very little experience in. He didn't know how to respond to her utter trust in him, to her kindness and well-meaning support. So he was rude. Rude was easy. It didn't take thought, just a few short sentences, and that look in her eyes that made his chest ache would disappear from her features, replaced with tears and shame. That hurt too, but he understood it better.

_I wanted you to vanish from sight,_

_But now I see you in a different light._

Love was something Sherlock believed he was incapable of feeling. Incapable didn't seem right though. He didn't _want_ to feel it. He'd always believed love to be a hindrance. It just created problems. Love hurt. It tore down walls, nice, safe, defensive walls that kept his feelings far away, and everyone else with it. When he looked at Molly, he hurt. When he thought of the pain he caused her, he felt his face redden. He didn't like that. He turned away at the thought of acquiescing to feeling anything for Molly other than annoyance and mild amusement. But his feelings had gone beyond that some time ago. He wasn't quite certain how, but he'd grown accustomed to her smile, the hope, the trust she radiated, most especially her inner strength that she never believed she possessed.

_And though I cannot love you_

_I wish that I could love you_

But he groused and spat out the word 'love', he was _not_ in love.

"Yes you are," John chuckled, flipping through a magazine. He situated himself in his chair, amused as Sherlock paced.

"I am not!" he grumbled. "Petulant…_pining_…flimsy…it just makes you want to vomit! I'd _rather_ vomit. I am _not_ in love with Molly Hooper." John looked over at Mary, who was bringing in a tea tray. She looked at John, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. No one had even mentioned the pathologist until Sherlock did. Confused, John frowned, but only for a moment, suddenly catching what his wife was about to say.

"That's good you're not, I'm going to set her up with someone."

"Good. Fine. Lovely." Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa, his back to them. Mary gave John a look and he smothered his grin. "Who?" Sherlock asked finally, looking over his shoulder.

"Just an old friend," Mary replied evasively.

"Friend," he spat out. "Probably all hairy-backed, some chavvy beer-swilling engineer from Leeds with ingrown toe-nails and gastrointestinal disorders."

"Mm, but he's a terribly nice fellow."

"Tom was nice," John said mock innocently.

"Tom was an _idiot_," Sherlock sneered. "Dull as a post, 'meat-dagger'…idiot. She's too good for him and was smart to end it when she did. She's leagues ahead of him anyway. What makes you think your friend will be any better? Just because he's 'nice'?" he scoffed.

"But you don't love Molly," Mary said, smiling. Sherlock snorted, yanking his robe around himself, rolling over to face the back of the couch again.

"No more than reason," he said quietly. "I love her as a…friend."

"A friend?"

"Yes. A friend. Different form of love, you say it all the time Mary. I like her as a friend."

"You said 'love her as a friend'."

"Shut up Mary."

_For now I'm seeing love like none I've ever known._

Even as he listened to John and Mary quietly talking, he knew it was a lie. He did _not_ love Molly Hooper as a friend. Or at least he didn't think he did. It was an odd thing, admitting, at least to himself, that he wanted more of his relationship with Molly Hooper. That was simple enough, wasn't it? He heard John and Mary bid him goodbye hours later, he wasn't quite sure if he answered. He got to his feet, taking down his violin. He needed to think, so naturally he took to his violin, trying the strings. He stopped, suddenly unsure. He shut his eyes, accessing Molly's rooms. Setting the bow under his arm, he reached instead to the strings with his fingers, thinking as he played pizzicato for a few moments. Finding his balance, he picked up his bow again, scribbling down a few notes. He marveled at himself. He marveled at Molly. He had never believed to ever want anyone. At least in this way. He never wanted to marry The Woman. He was impressed with her, he respected her for beating him (almost) at his game, and he even admired her. But The Woman was after her own interest and personal gain (how selfish), a trait that would only end in both of them completely unhappy. Entirely unsuitable. Sherlock looked at John and Mary's marriage. Two independent adults, who decided that life would be better if they were together. They didn't need each other twenty four hours a day; they didn't have to call every ten minutes or use pet names or be soppy around each other. They didn't use devious methods to get a favor, they didn't play games with each other's feelings. Trust was implicit, love was exclusive. John explained it to him once that it was more than simply sharing a flat. Love for a spouse was putting their thoughts and needs ahead of your own.

"You tend to think about them when you're doing stuff for yourself," John said once. Sherlock thought too of how John and Mary appeared to others in public. They were a pair. They fit together, and you knew right away they belonged together. Public displays of affection usually didn't go beyond a peck on the lips and hand-holding. Sherlock could do without public kissing. Hand holding might be nice. Molly had nice hands. Nice, capable hands that got things done.

Sherlock would never be pie-eyed at any woman. He was once, but that was only because she'd walked into the room naked. It was more of a shock than anything (pleasing as her form was). He never looked at Janine the way John looked at Mary. Sometimes Mary would borrow John's shirts when he was away. Sherlock knew because they'd been on a case in Austria and John had Skyped Mary. She'd answered the call in one of his window-checked shirts. John gave her such a look that Sherlock wasn't quite sure if he should leave the room or hose John down. Frankly, Sherlock was annoyed when Janine took to wearing his shirts. She got them all wrinkled, and it's simply not sanitary to wear someone else's clothes with nothing on underneath. More than once he had to restrain himself from barking at her to go bloody change and put his shirt back where it came from. Sherlock was quite confident he wouldn't ogle at Molly either. He'd confirmed that the night of the Christmas party. She'd worn that ridiculous dress that made Lestrade down his drink and John almost swear in front of Mrs. Hudson (and his then-girlfriend, which still made Sherlock chuckle in Molly's favor). Of course he rarely saw her out of her lab coat. Or any coat really. She didn't frequent Baker Street (perhaps she should) and he didn't often drop by her flat. He used to use it as a bolt hole, usually while she was at work, or when she was asleep. Her pyjamas were lackluster and not figure-friendly. Just oversized t-shirts and flannel bottoms. He knew she possessed a figure (the Christmas dress confirmed that), a slightly above-average attractive figure. She dressed for practicality's sake. One can't be on their feet all day in stilettos in a morgue. It's not very professional to be wobbling around, first of all, to say nothing of the swollen ankles and varicose veins at the end of the day. Knowing all this, he entered the lab, confident in his approach. To woo Molly Hooper (she deserved nothing less, and frankly, he rather looked forward to this chase) all the way to the Justice of the Peace, or church, however it was she wished for them to legalize their nuptials. Sherlock would not casually date anyone. If he was to court someone, it would be with the intent of marriage. For better or worse, what he was about to propose to Molly would change the course of their relationship forever. He pushed open the doors to the lab, taking a breath. He hoped it would be for the better.

_A love as pure as breath, as permanent as death._

_Implacable as stone_

He would ask her for coffee. Coffee was easy. They could talk over coffee. Talk with Molly was easy. Usually. He opened his mouth, heading for his usual microscope.

"Morning," she said before he could even speak, catching him off-guard. He turned to return the greeting and felt the wheels of his train of thought come to a screeching halt and he frantically wondered why. There was nothing spectacular about her this morning. Same lab coat, one of her usual hairstyles (braid, pinned to crown of head, rather flattering), her make-up was minimal (mascara, three coats, average, and…what the Hell? _Lipstick_? Molly never wore lipstick!) He stared at her mouth, recalling the time she'd offered coffee and had returned, lipstick gone, and he'd tossed out some thought that her mouth was too small without it. "Sherlock?" He blinked, coming back to the present.

"Yes! Good. morning. Molly."

"Everything alright?" she asked, frowning. He was still on the previous thought that he'd said her mouth was too small.

"Your mouth isn't too small," he blurted.

"What?" now she looked confused. And now he was floundering for words to explain.

"I said once your mouth was too small. It's not. That shade of lipstick compliments you though." With that he swiveled on his heel, hanging up his coat by the door and went to the cupboard where his test tubes and petri dishes were stored.

"Thank you…" she managed, still unsure of why he said that.

"Coffee?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes," relief flooded her face and he relaxed. "Hold on," she smiled, turning to go. His smile at his success faltered. He did it again! He needed to be more careful with how he phrased things. He always asked for coffee, he meant for her to join him, he probably should have specified…

"Oh, no, that isn't what-"

"It's alright," she said and disappeared to her office, returning with a drink tray, two cups balancing on opposite ends, sugar and cream packets piled in the middle. "I stopped at a café on my way here and remembered you didn't have a case, so I knew you would be coming in today. I picked up your usual." She handed it to him, along with two sugar packets. He stared at it, thinking of what John said: _'You tend to think about them when you're doing stuff for yourself,'_

"Thank you, Molly." He looked at her, and Molly seemed startled. Perhaps he looked too serious. "That is the cultural norm, is it not, to thank someone when they do a favor for you?"

"It wasn't much," she said, brushing it aside. Her defense mechanism. "I didn't mind."

"How much was it?" he asked, reaching for his wallet.

"It's on the house," she smiled. "I've got to get to work, are you set up here?"

"Yes, thank you," he watched her hurry away, his mind lingering on her shade of lipstick, and suddenly realizing she was wearing kitten heels that day.

All that day while he worked, he watched her in the spare moments he had. She came and went between the lab and the morgue. She hummed her insipid pop songs and shouted obscenities when she couldn't get a particularly corpulent man's chest cavity open, fist-pumping the air when she hacked through a particularly difficult hunk of fat. Sherlock actually smiled, amused. Most men, when thinking of confident women, probably did not picture women like Molly Hooper. It was a pity, because when it came to her line of work, Molly was the most confident she'd ever been. She didn't have to think, she knew what she was doing, and could easily carry on conversation while holding a cut-up spleen or studying a bacteria-riddled intestine. By mid-morning, Sherlock noted that Molly checked her phone at least four times, apparently expecting a message. She checked her hair at lunch, seeming excited to go. She must have been expecting to meet someone. Of course she would. Why wouldn't she? She'd found Tom what's-his-name all on her own. Sherlock felt his heart sink, and he grew angry with himself.

_A love that, like a knife, has cut into a life__  
__I wanted left alone.__  
_

He never asked to fall in love with Molly. He never wanted to in the first place. He glanced at Molly when she returned from lunch, her face flushed from hurrying, a garment bag on her arm. Dry-cleaning, no doubt.

"Yes I can come tonight, after work?" she was on her phone as she hung the bag on the door of her office. "I can leave right after, I can meet you at your place if you like, yes, of course! No I'd love to, shall I bring anything?" Molly glanced through the open doorway to Sherlock, who immediately turned back to his experiment. "A bottle of wine? Any preference?" she laughed at whatever was said. "Oo sexy, yes I'll look for it. Alright, I'll see you tonight!" she hung up, humming to herself as she scribbled down a note. Probably for her date that evening. He felt sick. Sherlock bowed over the microscope, doing his best to calm the pounding in his chest and thrumming in his ears. He didn't know if he was angry at himself or this supposed date of Molly's or Molly herself. How dare she fall in love! How dare someone take his Molly! How dare he become so stupidly emotionally attached to anyone!

_A love I may regret, but one I can't forget._

The lights flicked on an off and he turned with a start to see Molly with her hand on the switch, smiling.

"I called you several times, I guess you were in your Mind Palace," she said. "I'm locking up, are you finished?" He looked at the clock on the wall, realizing it was almost an hour past the end of Molly's shift.

"Yes, I am," he said and got up. He got an idea that he could spill something, make her late for her date, or even spill something on her dress and ruin it. It would be so terribly easy, and Sherlock would be lying if he said he wouldn't take keen delight in doing so. Instead he shut off the microscope, carrying the used petri dishes and tubes to the sink.

"Here, let me help," she said and rolled up her sleeves.

"Won't you be late?" he asked.

"For what?" she took the rubber gloves off the top of the faucet, running the water until it was hot enough. "Here, you dry."

"Aren't you going out?" he tried again.

"No," she shook her head. "I think you know my personal life pretty well," she laughed. "Why should I go out?" Now Sherlock was confused. Lipstick, heels, constant checking of messages, and late back from lunch, a phone call discussing dinner plans and wine, as well as a dry-cleaning bag from an upscale shop all spelled 'date'. So where the hell was she going that she wasn't telling him?!

"How was lunch?" he found himself asking, almost kicking himself.

"Very nice, I met up with Anthea, your brother's personal assistant." Mycroft! What on earth was Molly doing with Mycroft?!

"Yes, she's…not often one for social niceties."

"Not unlike you or Mycroft," Molly laughed, nudging him with her elbow as her hands delved into the soapy water again. "My reception is terrible down here, I almost didn't get the address for the restaurant this morning," she continued. Well that explained why she kept checking her phone.

"And how was my older brother?" he asked carefully. Molly shook her head.

"I have no idea. He wasn't there, why should he be?" It was just a lunch with Anthea. Obviously the two were friends. How odd.

"You had a dress bag…" he said lamely.

"Mary's dry-cleaning?" Molly frowned. "She asked me to pick up her wedding dress from the cleaners, she finally got round to having it cleaned so she can store it properly. I'm going to drop it off tonight, and she invited me over for dinner, John's cooking, which means excess take-away. They said to tell you to come along if I ran into you. Oh! That reminds me I have to pick up a bottle of wine on my way over there." Sherlock felt an immense weight off his shoulders, and he felt himself let out a breath.

"Oh." Slowly, Molly handed him the last dish, clearly thinking.

"Sherlock,"

"Hm." Now that the matter of the dress-bag and lunch date were sorted, he was much more relaxed.

"Did you think I was going out on a date with someone?" He wiped out the last test tube, setting it on the rack.

"You're wearing heels," he said quietly. He glanced at her. "And lipstick." Her mouth slowly turned up, smiling at him. "Your previous reason for wearing either was because you were emotionally attached to someone." Molly peeled off her gloves, setting them aside as she turned and leaned against the sink. She opened her mouth to speak, and then changed her mind. Instead, she rose up on tiptoe, pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth. _Oh_. _Bliss_.

_I don't know how I let you so far inside my mind_

_But there you are and there you will stay_

You're not supposed to think about other women you've kissed while kissing someone else. But if he was to compare Janine or even, yes, The Woman to Molly Hooper, the emotional attachment he had to Molly made all the difference, and he found kissing her to infinitely surpass all the others.

She was the first to pull away, smiling at him as he took a breath, regarding her through half-lidded eyes. She took her thumb, wiping the corner of his mouth before heading for the door, hanging her lab coat on the hook.  
"Coming?" she called and he turned, taking his own jacket up.

_How could I ever wish you away?__  
__I see now I was blind._

He hailed a cab for them, getting the door for her before climbing in after her. Mary's garment bag sat folded on Molly's lap, his hand found its place in hers, fingers lacing together. Sherlock thought of wedding dresses, he thought of gold rings and how much he wanted to see both on Molly. He wanted to wear a wedding band on his right hand so that whenever he'd reach for her left hand they'd clink together and remind him he belonged to her and she to him.

"Molly,"

"Hmm?"

"Will you marry me?" he turned from the window, hearing her smile.

"Yes, Sherlock." He squeezed her hand gently, thinking.

"Soon?"

"How soon?"

"As soon as I can acquire rings and a marriage license."

"I'll need some time to find a dress," she said, finally looking over to him.

"A week then?"

"Yes." Another smile, this time from him.

Quiet again.

"Have you always known you'd marry me?" he asked suddenly.

"I think I've had a pretty good idea for the last year or so."

"I think I've known since I left London," he said quietly. Her eyes softened as she looked at him. "You never gave up on me, did you? Even when you were with Tom."

"Not completely, no. I was resigned, and I think I might have been happy with Tom."

"Not as happy as you will be with me," he said stoutly.

"No one could possibly measure up to you, Sherlock."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"Yes." Before he could protest, she kissed him again and he decided it didn't matter. What mattered was Molly, and that very soon he would be hers and she would be his.

_And should you die tomorrow,__  
__Another thing I see.__  
__Your love will live in me. _


End file.
